


Philia-delphia

by sudowoodo



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Shazam! (2019)
Genre: Aged Up Freddy Freeman, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Angst, Anxiety, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkward Tension, Blow Jobs, Closeted Richie Tozier, Coming Out, Cripple Slur, Dark Comedy, Depression, Dialogue Heavy, Disability, Emotional Baggage, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, I cannot physically write short chapters, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Plot With Porn, Post-Canon, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Really quite a lot of shame, Reclaiming Slurs, Self-Esteem Issues, Shame, Spooning, Sugar Baby Freddy Freeman, Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy Richie Tozier, Suicidal Thoughts, This is a mess and so is Richie, Virginity, body issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sudowoodo/pseuds/sudowoodo
Summary: “Holy shit,” says the kid, fast. “You’re that— Richie Tozier guy. Am I saying that right? Holy shit, I’ve seen you in memes.”“Uh,yeah,” says Richie.“Uuuh—” The boy starts to laugh compulsively. He glances around quickly and nudges the hotel room door closed behind him. “I didn’t expect to actually recognise—” He throws one hand up, laughing, the other leaning heavier on the crutch. “Swear I’m not a stalker stan or anything. Literally scrolled past your shit on Netflix, like, a million times.”“Fuck, great, I’ll pass that on to the marketing team.”“Ha.” The kid sways a little on his crutch. Then he looks down at himself, blinking, as if it’s the first time he’s seen his own legs. “Right. So I never mentioned… It’s not abigdeal— I’m pretty sure I can still do most, uh, positions— but if you feel like walking out right now that is also—” Richie can only blink, totally blindsided by the sheer velocity of words streaming out of the kid’s mouth. “—I’ll understand, I mean. Right, I more or less catfished you, what am I thinking? I should just—”“Hey,” Richie laughs suddenly, throwing his hands up in the air. “You wanna sit down or something?”
Relationships: Billy Batson/Freddy Freeman, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Freddy Freeman (DCU) & Richie Tozier, Freddy Freeman (DCU)/Richie Tozier
Comments: 54
Kudos: 131





	1. First Day

Richie Tozier’s got a date with a hot pretzel in Philadelphia. Yes, that’s Philadelphia, PA, cheesesteak capital of the world. Liberty Bell. Italian Stallion on the steps. Birthplace of one Kevin Hart, star of _Jumanji_. ( _Actor, director, standup comedian_ , Richie adds to the margin of the inflight magazine.) Oh, yes, siree, there’s plenty to do in the City of Brotherly Love. Richie, for one, cannot wait to go directly to his hotel and spend the entire weekend indoors.

From his window seat as they’re landing the sky seems to be all cloud, just uniform grey. You _just don’t get_ clouds like that in California. The buildings are a kind of a dirty red brick, or brown, and he can see from the height that there’s some more old school architecture scattered around too. It’s all startlingly familiar, woefully east-coast — all way too fucking close to home. 

(Too close to Maine, he should say.)

Next time — if there is a next time — he’ll just fly the kid out to L.A. That’s the whole deal, right? With these Sugar Daddy things?

The pretzel in question is not, in fact, the delightful pastry he picks up at baggage claim (no appetite for a hoagie just yet, unfortunately, he still feels _way_ too fucking close to puking), but theInvisibleBae — the guy whose pictures he’s been scrolling through the entire flight over. Whose dirty texts he’s been rereading. Whose bambi eyes he’s been soaking up and sinking into — when he wasn’t under his blanket rewatching that one video of the boy sinking onto his own fingers and coming untouched.

It’s insane. Richie has literally gone insane. But he’s blowing two thousand airmiles to come meet the kid, and possibly blowing himself right out of the Hollywood closet in the process. If he had a therapist they might tell him he’s acting self-destructively — maybe he _wants_ to be forced out of the closet. Well, no shit, he _wants_ to be out. It’s 2020, literally _no_ - _one_ cares what gets Richie Tozier’s rocks off. Hell, it might even be good for his clout. It might even be great! Maybe they’ll uncancel him over at the NoHo Pride Centre. ‘ _Don’t worry guys, I’m not a real homophobe — just an internalised one! That means I hate myself as much as I hate all of you!_

_Gee, does that makes us even?’_

Nah, better to be forced out unwittingly, some sob story attached. Great for the PR. Though on second thought, paying a college student for sex doesn’t exactly paint him in the _best_ of lights. Christ — there’s no way he can be tracked, right? Not yet, anyway. Every time one of his more unscreened tweets blows up and he wakes up to a barrage of texts and missed phonecalls he thinks — well, that’s it. The kid’s spilled the lube. How’s he gonna handle the scandal — the judgement — the whole world knowing he’s so deep in the closet he’s gotta _pay_ a _college kid_ for _sex_? And all that’s best case scenario — that’s assuming the kid isn’t lying about his age. Fucking jailbait to a tee, no joke. So then there’s the child pornography charges, already, before they even meet up.

Still, he’s here — in a cab, in a hotel suite — self-destructing. He might as well be outed. He might as well. He’s too much of a fucking coward to do it himself. 

So far he’s only been brave enough to tell eight people: the other losers, and his folks.

Six. Six people.

Richie scrunches his eyes shut. He reaches blindly for the bourbon he poured from the minibar and knocks the rest of it back. 

He was never the brave one in this shit.

His phone buzzes on the hotel sofa where he tossed it before hopping into the shower and drowning himself in expensive whiskey. He moves reluctantly away from the bar to check.

 **theInvisbleBae** : omw

Richie throws himself on the sofa as another message comes in — a selfie. Bae on a subway, sticking his tongue out at the camera. 

_This is a literal child_ , Richie thinks, holding his phone above his head. He swipes through some more of the photos. _I am a fucking heathen._

Why is it worth it, you may ask? What is it about this twink that has him stringing fifty dollar bills up in his virtual g-string? Throwing down cash for his rent? Footing the bill for his weekly grocery delivery? What kind of student gets their groceries _delivered_ anyway? Is that a Gen Z thing — like, is that what the kids are doing these days? And, now, without ever having talked face to face, flying five hours from sunny California… to Phila-fucking-delphia? In the middle of January? For fuck’s sake?

Well. Look. It’s hard to explain.

What’s weirder, really, is that the dude agreed to meet him. He’s never even seen Richie, never heard his voice — it’s too much of a giveaway, if Richie really is half as famous as his imposter syndrome lets him believe. All Bae knows is his daddy’s got an eight-incher and a raging hardon for short shorts and tube socks. And big brown eyes — you know, with the eyelashes. Kids are wearing fanny packs under their armpits these days, who fucking knew? Maybe Richie can put in a request.

On second thought, Richie thinks maybe you can guess his age from the dick pics and video — he already manscaped the shit out of that one grey pube he found last year. Basic weight is obvious too, and height inferred from the eight inches. His face could be a total shitshow, though. 

His face _is_ a total shitshow.

Guess eight inches is enough for the barely legal sugar babies of Philadelphia. 

And. Hey. The cash can’t hurt either. 

Beggars really can’t be choosers, huh.

Sniggering to himself, Richie flips out his notepad to jot that one down. You know, in case he ever wants to bring up an anecdote about his gay prostitute in the next show.

Tossing the notebook aside, he leans back and throws both hands over his face, exhaling loud. This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid. He was half-hoping the dude wouldn’t show, and he’d spend the weekend getting blackout drunk in his room, just hope he doesn’t miss his flight back home. He doesn’t want to be the guy who pays for sex. He doesn’t want to be the guy who takes advantage of broke-ass college kids. He doesn’t want to admit he’s too fucked up for casual hookups anymore, let alone _relationships_ — doesn’t want to accept that this is the only option left to him to feign some pathetic sense of intimacy.

Well, maybe he’ll get cold feet. Maybe the kid will. There’s still time.

As he’s putting away the notepad, he fumbles around, forgoing all self-restraint and taking out his wallet instead. Unbuttons the coin pouch he doesn’t use, and carefully thumbs at the piece of paper inside. Unable to resist, he pulls it out, and takes a long gander at the photo he stole from Eddie’s wallet back at the townhouse, torn on one side where the wife had stood in her wedding dress. It’s not an old picture — five years, Eddie said they’d been together. It doesn’t even _look_ that old — it was more worn out after five months in Richie’s wallet than five years in Eddie’s. Richie likes to think that says something. He’s probably kidding himself, though.

He just about manages not to bring up Bae’s photos alongside it. He’s half thinking of asking his mom if there’s any albums lying around from the good ol’ days of Derry. Does Mom remember Derry? Do those albums even exist? Or were they destroyed, never created, clown magic, yada yada? But the Eddie back then — fuck, he’s so clear in Richie’s mind. The eyes, bright and round. The nervous smile, the unhinged laughter. The energy of him — acute anxiety oscillating alongside Richie’s ADHD. God, they fit so good. They fit so right. After they turned sixteen Eddie and his mom moved out of town. So Richie can only guess what Eddie looked like in his late teens, in early adulthood. 

But this soft pretzel he’s about to meet is a good approximation. 

It’s nuts, really. But here he is. Disrespecting memories. And dead best friends.

He’s had two more whiskeys before there’s a _bleepity-bleep_ at the door and the handle turns. Sure, self-service check-in is great for the anonymous hookups, but Jesus _Christ_ Richie’s _heart_.

He literally cannot move. He’s literally going to fucking puke.

Panicking, he throws down his drink just as the door pushes open. It sticks halfway, and there’s a hand, and there’s a body — and, hey, it’s Bae, bundling his way inside in a hat and scarf and puffy jacket, with his curly hair and his big ol’ eyes and his mouth a nervous line — reflecting Richie’s. 

His eyes land on Richie. For a moment they just stare at each other. Then Bae’s face breaks into shock.

“Holy shit,” he says, fast. “You’re that — Richie Tozier guy. Am I saying that right? Holy shit, I’ve seen you in memes.”

“Uh, _yeah_ ,” says Richie.

“Uuuh—” The kid starts to laugh compulsively. He glances around quickly and steps through the threshold, a crutch preceding him, and nudges the door closed behind him. 

What was that — a crutch? Like, _not_ the emotional kind? Richie’s never heard of such a thing.

“I mean, I know you said you were famous but I didn’t expect to actually recognise—” He throws one hand up, laughing, the other leaning heavier on the crutch. “Swear I’m not a stalker stan or anything. Literally scrolled past your shit on Netflix, like, a million times.”

Richie’s mouth manages to flap on it own. “Fuck, great, I’ll pass that on to the marketing team.” 

“Ha.” The kid’s eyes dart to the door. He sways a little on his — his crutch, his crutch, it’s just a fucking crutch! Then he looks down at himself, blinking, as if it’s the first time he’s seen his own legs. “ _Right_. So I never mentioned… I realise that’s shitty, but honestly I just didn’t know _how—_ ”

“Yeah, what happened, you have an accident or something?” asks Richie, getting to his feet.

“I mean, yeah. Being conceived, for one thing.”

Richie stops. Bae sort of grins, sort of proud, sort of _in your face_ about it. A laugh bursts out of Richie, realising he’s _allowed_. “Holy shit!” he splutters, holding his gut. He did _not_ expect to be genuinely fucking laughing right now. But that’s a damn joke, that is. He should write that one down. 

“But, uh, yeah I had an accident,” the kid goes on, mouth running hot and fast. “When I was eight. This is— permanent. I mean, it’s not a _huge_ thing — I’m pretty sure I can still do most, uh, positions — but, if you feel like walking out right now that is also—” Richie can only blink stupidly, totally blindsided by the sheer velocity of words streaming out of the kid’s mouth. “—I’ll understand, I mean. Right, I more or less catfished you, what am I thinking? This is dumb, I should just—”

“Hey,” Richie laughs suddenly, throwing his hands up in the air. “You wanna sit down or something?”

The boy stares at him, wide-eyed. He grins. “Uh, yeah! OK! Sure.” 

Bae walks over, and it’s a limp and a half. It shoots from the hip. Richie’s a _call ’em as he sees ’em_ sorta guy, and he’s gotta put it out there. It’s not a big deal, really, but let’s just be honest here. It is, indeed, a very distinguished limp.

It’s not entirely a turn off.

The kid’s head whizzes around, immediately losing interest in Richie as the rest of the suite comes into view. 

“Ho-ly shit,” he breathes, jaw dropping open. “What the fuck — this room is bigger than my entire apartment. Wait — where’s the bed?”

“Well, shit, I’m hoping it’s in here—” Richie walks over and throws open a double door, revealing a decent size master bedroom.

The kid almost chokes. His free hand flies to his head. For a moment, the gesture almost concusses Richie. It’s not just the face — it’s not just a resemblance — he even _moves_ the same, his hands flying around the same, _everything_. 

_Dreaming, dreaming, you gotta be dreaming, man._ Richie’s eyes flick around, half-expecting to see a red balloon pop up outta nowhere. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up and his heart rate’s gone nuts. _No no no —_ dream, I _said — not nightmare! Jesus Christ, you’re fucking losing it, man!_

Unbeknownst to him, the boy staggers his way over and flops down on the sofa, dropping his crutch and laughing dazedly. His eyes roam around, taking in every detail — minibar, 75 inch TV, floor-to-ceiling windows. Then his eyes land on Richie, smiling in what can only be described as _awe_ — and, hey, there isn’t even any black sludge spewing out of his mouth. Richie blinks and snaps out of his fight-or-flight experience long enough to realise he might finally understand what this whole Sugar Daddy thing’s about.

Groceries got nothing on this shit.

“Surely you knew,” says Richie, gesturing grandly and wondering how he hasn’t actually thrown up yet. “I’ve been paying fifty bucks a selfie, kiddo.”

The kid inhales suddenly, slapping a hand to his head. “Shit — sorry — I’m not doing a very good job of being _cool_ right now. Let alone, uh, sexy. I’ve never stayed in a… in a room this big before.”

“That’s OK, I’m not really in sexy mode either just yet.” Richie wets his lips, scratching the back of his neck. “This is… fucking weird, right?”

“ _Super_ weird,” says Bae, nodding fervently. He starts unpeeling his winter layers, taking off his hat. His curls are mussed underneath. _Cute, cute_ —

“I haven’t done this before,” Richie blurts out.

“Yeah, no, me neither.”

Richie gags a little on his breath. “What — really?”

“No, I’ve never met up with anyone. Just webcam…”

“Oh.” 

_Why’d you pick me?_ Richie wants to ask. Nope — stop right there. He doesn’t want the answer. That’s not what he’s here for. 

“Sorry,” says the kid again, wrinkling his nose up at him. 

Richie waves his hand. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Maybe it’s better we’re both virgins, huh?”

The boy laughs nervously, and opens his mouth to say something. Then he… doesn’t.

Richie just doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He keeps wanting to wring them like some sort of pervy schoolteacher. Bae looks up at him, smiling slightly, and all Richie can do is fucking _stare_. 

Compulsively, his legs move, taking him to the sofa to sit next to the kid. He stares at him a moment longer, then shakes his head like a wet dog. 

“Um, I don’t know if I mentioned this,” — _he didn’t_ — “but you, uh… wow, you look _insanely_ like this kid I knew in high school.”

Bae cocks his eyebrows and grins. “Star of the football team, I bet.”

“Oh, he was star of my dreams alright.”

“O- _oh_.” There’s a flash of surprise, a spark in the warm brown eyes. Then he smiles, all shy, and Richie suspects this kid ain’t all that used to compliments. But that’s alright — that’ll do. If the kid’s a little awkward, Richie might just be able to pretend he’s Ryan fucking Gosling or something.

The boy’s eyes widen suddenly. He points a finger at himself. “Oh — you want me to pretend I’m him?”

Richie chokes on his own spit. “Uh, let’s not—” He starts laughing compulsively. “No. I don’t think I wanna go there.”

“Well, what kind of stuff are you into?” says the kid, eyes big.

“Sex,” says Richie instantly. 

Bae gives him a sneer. “Yeah. OK. Great. Really informative.”

Richie pretends to think on it. He holds up his hands. “ _Booooys_ ,” he says, splaying them.

That _almost_ gets a laugh.

“Look—” Richie blurts out, “can I just ask one thing?”

“Shoot.”

“Uh… what age are you?”

“I’m twenty,” says Bae, rolling his eyes.

Richie rubs his brow. “Jesus Christ.”

“And you know I’m not lying, right — I could show you my ID. It’s not fake — ’cause here’s the thing, why would I have a fake ID for under twenty-one? It’s useless. I can sell my body but I can’t even buy alcohol!”

“You really thought that one through, huh. That’s not fucking suspicious at all.”

The boy laughs, turning a little red. “I happen to look young, OK? Lotta guys online seem to be into that.”

“You’re literally half my age, that doesn’t bother you?”

Bae shrugs. “Age is just a number.”

“Oh — just wait ’til you’re forty, kiddo, you’ll be singing another tune.”

The kid’s brows contracts, and his voice is louder when he speaks again. “You know, there’s probably about a _million_ pornstars out there younger than me—”

“Yeah, but I just _watch_ those guys — I can compartmentalise!”

“I’m not gonna ask for anything if you wanna bail, dude. Well, maybe the subway ticket.”

Richie thinks for a moment, tapping his foot. He averts his eyes. “Never said I wanted to bail.”

Bae cocks an eyebrow. “Well, fine, but stop beating yourself up about it. It’s not sexy.”

Richie bursts out laughing. “Oh, boy, you better get used to that.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“ _I’m_ not sexy.”

“Yeah — no, you kinda are, though.”

“No — look, you do _not_ have to say that. I know this is fake as fuck, but come on, let’s be real here.”

“I’m _not_ just saying that.” _Nope, liar, lying,_ thinks Richie, when suddenly Bae giggles a bit. “Hey, you know that thing — sexy in a rat kind of way?”

Blinking, Richie shakes his head. “Christ, _what?_ Is this another meme?”

“So, I’ve been thinking you’re like — you’re like sexy in a beaver kind of way.”

Richie’s eyes scrunch shut. He shoots to his feet, shouting, “Yo— I did _not_ wear braces through four years high school for this shit! Fucking _beaver_ — are you kidding me?”

Bae screams with laughter, delighted to have unwittingly touched a nerve. Richie’s eyes snap wide. That’s a different laugh than he expected — so much louder and less restrained. For perhaps the first time he’s like, OK, not some strange reincarnation, _Freaky Friday_ type scenario — with the classic amnesia thing thrown up in the mix. It had only been four years, how could that even be possible? It’s just a major fucking coincidence, that’s all. 

Of course it is. The clown’s fucking dead.

Richie drop-kicks that thought from his mind and rolls with the bit, snatching up his suitcase and jacket. “No way, fuck you, alright? Fifteen minutes and you’ve boiled me down to my deepest fucking insecurities? Nah, man, I’m outta here, this is worse than therapy.”

The kid lunges to the edge of the sofa, laughing and reaching out for Richie as he takes off towards the door. “No, no, no, hey! It’s sexy — sexy, I said it was sexy!”

“Like a _beaver_ …? Kid — I mean, you’re gay, right? So you know about bears? You know about otters?”

“Uh, yeah, obviously!”

Richie pauses, gesturing widely. “You’re still sticking with the beaver thing though, huh?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, it just makes sense!” Kid is laughing so hard, Richie can just about believe it’s genuine, that he might actually be enjoying himself. Richie tongues the inside of his cheek, fighting a smile.

Grinning at him, Bae continues. “Look, all I’m saying is that if we met in, like, a bar or something and you so much as looked at me for more than half a second — I mean, _man_ , I’d probably be dreaming abut kissing you in the moonlight!”

“They wouldn’t even let you in the bar!” shouts Richie. He pauses, kind of blindsided, then shakes himself. “Also — that’s total bullshit!”

“No, I’m fucking serious! Dude, you know what it’s like being disabled in the gay community?” He laughs again but it’s different, teeth gritted against a smile. His eyes fix hotly on Richie. “You think a lot of guys spare me a second glance? At least on webcam I can get away with it if I just position myself right from the start — but this fucking thing—” He kicks the crutch, laughing humourlessly. “Out in the real world this gives me the power of invisibility.”

Richie rubs his forehead, sighing. “Your screen-name — thought it was a H.G. Wells reference. Or Mystery Men.”

Bae knits his brows. “Oh, it’s Mystery Men alright.”

“You — oh, wow, that’s old school.”

“Well, yeah, I’m also a huge-ass nerd. Comic books and cripples — the two pillars of the gay community.”

Richie laughs, bringing his hand up to his face. Christ, the kid’s funny. “And comedians,” he adds joylessly. “Guess I’m not allowed use the word _cripple_ if I end up stealing that joke, huh?”

“Your guess is fucking correct,” says Bae, leaning forward and grinning at him.

“Is that being reclaimed then? I hadn’t heard.”

“I’m reclaiming it. Sure.”

“Huh,” says Richie, thinking about guys he’s met who happily call themselves fags and queers. Suddenly, he feels like this kid’s actually _older_ than him, miles ahead of him in terms of self-acceptance, and Jesus Christ it’s the most depressing thought he’s had all week.

He glances up, and Bae is still smiling at him. Bae never stops smiling, it seems. That’s different. That’s unexpected. He used to know a kid with the most furious pout. 

The brown eyes scan Richie up and down for a moment before he sighs slightly. “Look, I’m not trying to guilt-trip you into staying, OK? Just don’t fucking tell me I’m not allowed be attracted to you.”

Richie shakes his head, still having a hard time accepting that. Eventually he just chucks his bag on the floor. “I’m not actually going anywhere.”

“Well—” The kid looks at him, quietening. He looks down at his hands. “Good.”

Richie hovers in the hall for a moment.

“Sorry,” says the kid, laughing and rubbing his neck. “I get a bit worked up.”

“Don’t be.” Bae looks up, eyes wide. Richie wets his lips and shrugs. “I like ’em feisty.”

The boy’s mouth falls open. Lips turning up cutely at the corners, he looks again at his hands. Richie takes a few deep breaths, and walks back over to sit down on the couch next to him. The space between is slightly smaller now. It is — _supremely_ awkward. But it’s a little smaller.

“And I’m sure a lotta guys out there are actually _into_ the, uh — into _that_ whole thing,” says Richie, nodding at the leg.

“Yeah, I’m not _quite_ desperate enough to fetishise my disability just yet, thanks though.”

“Fuck, sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. I mean, Trashmouth — that’s your thing, right? Or is that just your bit?”

“Oh, baby, that’s all me.”

The kid laughs and puts his hands down to turn himself in his seat. His knee bumps Richie’s. Must be the bad leg, Richie thinks. He’d never do that on purpose. “Well, I think it’s cool. I don’t want anyone walking on eggshells around me, I really don’t. So just go ahead and gimme your worst.”

Richie smiles. God, he wants to be kind to someone. 

“Um, aside from all that,” the boy goes on, eyes big and bright, knee insistent against Richie’s, “I really _do_ think you’re attractive, you know.”

Richie shakes his head, cringing.

“No, really, I do! You’re like one of those guys on TV that’s hot but not, like, intimidatingly hot — well, now that you’re here I think you’re probably still well above average, I guess they wouldn’t let you on TV otherwise — and, you know, I also think it’s OK to be turned on by the, uh, attention, and also the power imbalance, and—”

Richie grabs the kid’s neck and yanks him into a crushing kiss. 

The kid makes a small noise of surprise, but quickly it turns to laughing and he’s holding onto Richie’s arms, making eager, urgent noises — clutching his face and kissing him back. 

Well that went down a whole lot better than expected.

They break apart for air. Bae chuckles nervously. “Sorry, talking too much?” 

“No, I love the talking, I’m into the talking.” Breathless, Richie kisses him again, and Bae’s hands are in his hair, tugging, and _wow_ , that escalated fast. They pull away again briefly, hands still roaming over necks and shoulders. Richie wets his lips, blinking fast. “Like, _really_ fucking into it.”

The boy laughs breathily, and bites his bottom lip. Their eyes meet and linger, and for a second Richie’s twelve years old again because those eyes are—

He jumps to his feet. “HEY — wanna do something illegal?”

The kid, startled at first, makes a suspicious face at him, which in the current context is probably warranted. Richie jumps to the minibar and brandishes the whiskey. Bae laughs. “Hell yeah.”

Tossing the bottle and just about catching it, Richie starts throwing ice in his glass. “Alright — what’s your drink?”

“Beer’s good.”

“Boo, you whore.”

Accident — that was a fucking accident. They both stare at each other a moment — and then burst out in hysterics. Bae throws his head back and brings both hands up over his face. Richie splutters and has to lean on the minibar to keep himself upright.

“You’re _funny_ ,” declares Bae. “What the fuck? You’re actually funny!”

“Don’t sound so _shocked_. Jesus Christ, what do you think I do for a living!”

“No offence but…” The kid grins and throws his hands up. “I’m really fucking surprised!”

Shaking his head, Richie prepares his drink and grabs a cold one from the fridge. A room like this, a bar like that, and kid’s going for a brewski? His taste in drinks is worse than his taste in men. Meanwhile Richie’s brain is desperately searching for a comeback — but, jeez, the kid ain’t wrong.

“Beer for the lady,” says Richie, curtsying as he retakes his seat on the sofa.

“That’s fucking homophobic.”

“Haven’t you heard? I fucking hate those guys.”

“You must have a lot of self-loathing then,” says Bae, a little smirk on his face.

“Yep,” says Richie. “That’s the. That’s the joke, actually.”

Bae laughs through his nose, turning to look at him with this dumb fucking smile.

Richie picks up the remote and turns on the TV. The boy’s still staring, and Richie pretends not to notice. He flicks around for a bit before tugging his top lip under his bottom teeth.

“Um…” he says, glancing sideways at Bae. “So, we can just watch TV. If you want?”

The boy’s eyes trace his face, brow knitting. 

“Or you could leave, I dunno — shit, do you wanna leave? Fuck, I’m so sorry, do whatever you want. I’ll still give you the money. For the, like — the mental anguish of interacting with me as a person.”

“How about the emotional distress of letting me think I was actually gonna get laid this weekend?” the kid replies, grimacing and taking a long chug of his beer.

Richie watches and laughs a little. He wrinkles his brow. 

Wait — what?

The kid wipes his mouth on his sleeve and frowns at the TV for a moment. Richie suddenly cannot take his eyes off him. Bae takes a deep breath, scratching at the label on his bottle.

“Look, I’m nervous too, but…” The kid turns to him and tilts his brow up, and Richie’s heart does a frantic little skip. His eyes are so fucking huge as they implore him, lips turning down. “Did I do something? Like, we were making out a second ago — and now you’re telling me to leave? I dunno — is it me? Do you not want to do this?”

Richie swallows dry. “Wait. Do _you_ actually want to do this?”

Bae blinks at him. He laughs slightly, giving Richie a very pointed look up and down, then gestures wildly. “Well, _yeah!_ ”

Richie’s foot taps on the floor. He tries to think, but his brain’s hanging upside down. He snatches the kid’s beer from him, throwing it down with his whiskey on the coffee table.

“Fuck it,” he says, and scoops Bae up into his arms. The kid lets out a surprised giggle — then shrieks with sudden laughter as Richie flings him over one shoulder. Sprinting to the bedroom, Richie shouts, “Pip pip and tally-ho, I guess!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please consider dropping a comment for an artist in this trying time! 
> 
> I'm also on [Tumblr](https://sudowoodo-writes.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	2. First Night

“So,” says Comedian Richie Tozier, standing before the bed with Freddy dangling over one shoulder. “How _throwable_ would you say you are?”

“Oh,” replies Freddy, grinning as all the blood rushes to his head. “It’s OK, yeah, I’m actually pretty flaccid.”

Richie leans over, grabbing his waist and fucking _launching_ Freddy onto the bed. Freddy bounces, tries to make it sexy — and fails miserably. Then he snorts a little. Which is better.

“Flaccid,” repeats Richie, kicking off his shoes. “ _Fantastic_ word for the bedroom.”

“Shit, you’re right, let’s say, uh, pliant.”

“Supple.”

“ _Limber_.”

“Oooh, _limber_.” Richie laughs, coming to kneeling on the bed. It’s not very hard to make Comedian Richie Tozier laugh, but it still hits Freddy like a freight train every time.

_Don’t ask me if my dick works. Pease don’t ask me if my dick works—_

Freddy scoots back towards the headboard. “For the record, my dick still fucking works, OK?”

Richie wrinkles his brow, a confused smile pulling at his mouth. “Yeah, man, I’ve watched you come like fifty times already.”

“Oh, right,” says Freddy, flushing warm. He rips his shirt off, chewing his lip, thinking he should probably clarify — while he can be picked up and thrown just fine, flexibility is not exactly his strong suit. Upper body strength — hey, no problem. But below the waist it’s a bit of an ordeal. He straight-up lied earlier too. _Most_ _positions?_ Why the fuck would he say that? What the fuck was he thinking?

Richie wets his lips, eyes roaming all over him. And it’s different, Freddy realises, it’s a lot different to guys typing out horny messages to him when he’s streaming, or sending him dick pics, or getting thirsty up in his DMs. It’s different to be looked at in real life with a real pair of eyes and a real bulge in the guy’s jeans like three feet away from your butt. 

Freddy stares. He never knew air could feel this heavy.

“Please don’t look at my gut,” says Richie, hesitating before reaching over his head and yanking his shirt off.

“Can’t,” says Freddy, unable to resist. “I’m way too distracted by your gigantic fivehead.”

Richie blinks and barks a laugh, shaking his head like that gave him whiplash. “Oh you little turd,” he mutters, scrambling up and grabbing Freddy’s waist. Freddy shrieks and Richie cackles as he starts tickling him ferociously. When Freddy tries to fight him off, Richie snatches his hands and pins them above his head, and whatever breath Freddy has left is just — gone. He keeps struggling, giggling, _grunting_ — as Richie switches to one hand for holding his wrists — _holy_ _shit_ — using the other one to get back to tickling. Hysterical, Freddy’s knee kicks up and Richie blocks it with his elbow. Taking the opportunity, Freddy manages to wrench one arm out and shove the older man off, only for Richie to double down and force both hands down again, interlinking the fingers and looming over him.

Freddy’s panting now, squirming, and getting really fucking hard. Richie stops for a moment to hang over him, scanning his eyes headily before snatching his mouth into another kiss. Freddy kisses back, moaning into it, and wrenches his fingers free to grab big handfuls of Richie’s scruffy hair. He doesn’t know if this counts as some sort of precursor to age play, and the reminder to agree a safe word flits in one brain cell and out the other, but what he does know is that _this_ — this is fucking hot. 

Richie grabs his face roughly and flattens himself over him, finding the right angle so that their crotches line up. Freddy shimmies his hips so the left side doesn’t get caught underneath the larger man’s weight, then gasps as Richie grinds down on him.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” he whispers, clinging to the broad back.

Oh, wait, there’s one more thing Freddy knows: Comedian Richie Tozier’s got a big dick. Freddy’s seen it — that’s all he’d seen before today. Now he knows that dick belongs to Comedian Richie Tozier and it’s — it’s fucking weird, alright? This dude’s the epitome of cishet bro culture, which on second thought—

Wow, it’s so fucking obvious on second thought.

He starts laughing. Richie’s eyes snap to his face. “What you giggling at?”

“Nothing,” says Freddy, grinning as Richie inches closer and kisses him again. Freddy’s — very pleased. He doesn’t really know what he expected walking in here but this — this couldn’t be better, really. Jesus, it’s a relief, actually — like, what the fuck would he have done if he ended up being catfished by some ninety year old man with bladder problems and — well, OK, Freddy can’t really talk.

Well, actually, he kind of can. He has total control over the sacrum, thank you very much. One or two vertebrae higher and he might not have been so fucking privileged. But that’s just the way the spinal cord crumbles.

Still, what would he have done if the guy was some rapey creep, or wanted to go full _Fifty Shades_ — or what if they just didn’t _click?_ He guesses it would have been fine, but… yeah, this is better. This is much better. This is actually kind of… _great?_

Freddy really didn’t expect this. 

He didn’t really expect anything, to be fair. Didn’t really think this much through. This is literally the dumbest thing Freddy’s ever done — and he once flew across the Atlantic fucking ocean on a dare. Washed up in the west coast of Ireland, old ladies in shawls speaking Gaelic at him and showering him in biscuits and knit sweaters. It was pretty great, actually, but the actual flying part was really fucking cold and he didn’t even bring any snacks, and his normal body got, like, double jet lag by the time he got home and it just wasn’t really worth it in the end.

This was even stupider than that, but at the same time Freddy just… knew. He knew this guy was for real. He knew he was telling the truth. He even knew that dick pic wasn’t shopped or anything, and _damn_ if he didn’t want to see it in person. 

It was weird, actually — like he just had a feeling. Just a good feeling. And that was enough.

(It wasn’t at all to do with the two grand the guy offered him for the weekend.)

Well, OK, maybe that was part of it. But the vibe was also legit.

Freddy spreads his hands over Richie’s broad back and feels his chest hair tickling his chest and it’s — it’s glorious, wow, it’s just fucking amazing. He hasn’t really… you know, done this before? Usually it’s just hand stuff in the front seat of some guy’s car or bathroom stall blowjobs that never get reciprocated. Or, you know, webcam shit that’s mostly one-sided. And, hey, Freddy’s not complaining. It’s fun being watched, and what’s even funner is that these guys actually pay good money to see him sitting around on dildos and shit. And they also, like, _buy_ him dildos and shit. 

But, yeah, he’s never really been… touched before.

He never mentioned that, did he? He’s pretty sure he forgot to mention that.

Fuck. This keeps fucking happening.

For his part, Freddy gets his leg up and wraps it around Richie’s waist, tossing his head back and moaning as Richie buries his face into his neck, sucking sloppy kisses down his throat and chest. He fumbles with Freddy’s belt, and Freddy’s heart is in his mouth as Richie wrenches his jeans down, fucking groaning when it reveals what’s underneath.

A smile tugs at Freddy’s lips. “You like ’em?” he asks, reaching down to snap the waistband of his brand new Calvin Klein’s.

Richie just blinks for a moment, shaking his head, and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Fuck me. Did I buy you these?”

“Yeah, you like the red, right?”

“I do, but— Jesus, I said get whatever _you_ want.”

“Well, I wanted these,” says Freddy, biting his lip. If there’s something he can pinpoint about why he chose this guy as his first — well, this would be it. He’s generous, but not at all forceful, and he lets Freddy do whatever he wants for the most part. Some guys will be all like, _hey I sent you something to wear tonight_ and it’s, like, not even on your fucking wishlist. 

Rude. 

But Richie was always just like, _hey —_ throws cash at you _— go get yourself something nice!_ Freddy now realises this might be because Comedian Richie Tozier has no fucking clue what he’s doing. But, hey. Neither does Freddy.

This is like cosmic universe level good vibes, what the fuck.

Richie’s busy getting Freddy out of his jeans, and Freddy recalls with a start how he’d intended to go powder his nose before they got this far, because as the jeans come off, his ankle-foot orthotic is just, you know. _There_.

Richie glances as it, then lifts Freddy’s other leg to whip his sock off. “This come off?” he asks, nodding at the orthotic.

“Yeah, it’s just velcro,” says Freddy, feeling his pulse in his fucking uvula. Richie finds the strap and rips it off, tossing it across the room with the second sock. He turns back to Freddy, both hands holding onto his ankles and sweeping up his calves to his knees. Freddy shudders, hips bucking.

“Is there, uh, anything I should know?” asks Richie, leaning over him. Freddy shimmies his hips again, letting his good leg come up around Richie’s waist.

Freddy bites his lip. “Yeah, uh…” He gulps, staring up at the ceiling. “So my hip’s not so flexible on the left side — external rotation. The knee as well is sort of weak in the bend. It’s not — impossible, just weak. It just gets tired pretty quick.”

“Is it OK if I hold it up?” 

“Uh, I don’t know, actually.”

“Well… fuck, we’ll figure it out.”

Mouth slightly open, Freddy looks up at Richie as the older man braces an elbow beside his head, leaning down to press another kiss to his mouth. This is very easy, thinks Freddy, closing his eyes and letting it deepen. Comedian Richie Tozier is a good kisser. The kisses trace down his neck again, his chest, his belly. Freddy’s breath is getting fast. Big hands brace his thighs and he twitches as more stubbly kisses are pressed to each leg. Looking down, he groans a little to see the man kneeling over him. Richie’s glasses are crooked when he glances up briefly to meet his eyes. 

“Oh, you’re just—” Richie presses his face into Freddy’s crotch, making his legs jerk. “Going for it,” he gasps, his voice a pitch too high.

“Mm-hm,” says Richie, dragging his nose up the length of Freddy’s dick, now jutting very strongly against the confines of his briefs. Freddy turns his eyes to the ceiling, grasping handfuls of the sheets and trying to manage the way his whole body is just _shuddering_ like this — like, it’s kind of embarrassing, really. Short little pants escape him, and he fucking _whimpers_ as Richie reaches the head and licks him through the fabric.

“Ho-holy — _shit_ — _ohmygod._ ”

He thinks he hears Richie laugh, but is distracted by the fingers hooking under his waistband, peeling them over his boner and down his thighs, his knees, his ankles. Freddy lifts his hips to help, wincing slightly. His leg is stiff already but he’s stiffer against the cool air, biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut, feeling more exposed than he’s ever felt in his life, not knowing what to do with his legs — where they should go — where they _can_ go — his chest and cheeks flushed hot.

For a moment, he can just feel Richie’s hands on him, on the outside of his thighs, and Freddy wants to spread his legs as wide as they’ll go but he _can’t_ because he knows they won’t go far at all. He wants to _know_ what’s a good position for him but he _doesn’t_ because he’s never fucking _done_ this before. He can’t even open his eyes to check what Richie’s doing because — fuck — he’s fucking _scared_ , alright? Because, YEAH, maybe this was a stupid idea after all — maybe this is all too much to handle — maybe he should have prefaced this with a HEY I’M ACTUALLY A VIRGIN HAHA SO PLEASE GO EASY ON ME HAHAHA!!!

His whole body jerks again as he feels something warm and wet on the base of his dick. He pants, mouth dropping wide, feeling it _deep._ Richie’s tongue drags up him and Freddy’s back arches, noises eliciting from his throat he’s never heard before. This time he feels rather than hears Richie laughing, warm breath sending chills over his sensitive skin, and he laughs a little too, surprised. He glances down again as Richie licks him up and down, mouth dirty and crooked and wide, and bites his lip against a moan as the man takes the whole head into his mouth. 

So. OK. Freddy came into this shit thinking there were two kinds of guy he was likely to meet: one, the guy who touches his chin and calls him a pretty little baby or whatever, then forces him down and fucks him mercilessly into the mattress. Or, two, the guy who just sits there and tells him what to do. Power and control — you know how it is. What he _never_ expected in a million years was the kind of guy who would just go ahead and blow him — before he’s even got his money’s worth of Freddy’s mouth and/or ass. So basically right now Freddy’s brain is chanting,

SER-VICE TOP! SER-VICE TOP!

at the top of its, you know, brain-lungs. And, hey — he’s not fucking complaining.

It’s just that… well, nobody’s gone down on Freddy before. Like, ever. In his mind it’s because, you know, the age old question of _does your dick even work?_ But really it’s probably just because it’s too close to the leg. See, the leg’s a turnoff. Nevermind that it shouldn’t be because there’s nothing wrong with the actual leg itself, but dudes probably expect some nasty scar or a pasty withered stump (and nevermind that those things shouldn’t be turnoffs either, but that’s another fucking issue for another fucking day). Sure, the orthotic is a bit weird but it’s no _biggie_. Nah, that’s not the real issue. No, no, no — the real problem is that they don’t see Freddy as _person_ — not a whole one anyway. He’s got a mouth, obviously, and hands that work. But he’s also got a limp. That’s all they see. So he’s just able-bodied enough to _give_ pleasure — but not enough to receive it.

Well, maybe it’s just jerkoffs his age who are like that, because Comedian Richie Tozier appears to be going down on him just fine right now. 

And, hey — did Freddy mention? It feels great — it feels awesome — it feels so fucking good he’s gonna—

“I’m gonna come so fast,” he blurts out, laughing suddenly.

Richie almost chokes on his dick. Freddy wants to grab his hair and keep him there because — holy _shit —_ that felt fucking amazing. Pulling off a moment and coughing, Richie brings his arm up to wipe his face. “What — want me to slow down?”

“Um, no, not really — I’m more of an instant gratification kind of a guy.”

“Well ain’t we just two peas,” mumbles Richie, leaning down to wrap his lips around him once more. Freddy’s knees kick out and he moans happily, reaching down to grip the older man’s sturdy shoulder. That feels awkward, so he pulls his hand back and clenches them up again in the sheets. Richie’s working him steadily, _fully_ , and it’s agonisingly hot already, he can feel it boiling up from the base of his spine, from every cell in his body. And now he’s letting his voice out because, you know, there’s no point trying to keep it down — and it also feels great — and also he kind of sort of _wants_ the people in the next room to know he’s having the best blowjob of his goddamn life.

Unable to help himself, he grabs Richie’s hair as he’s about to come. At least he thought he was going to — but then, holy fuck, _it just keeps going_ — and Freddy can’t believe it, and his body is shivering and coiled so tight and he knows this is going to fucking hurt in the morning but, _God_ , it’s so _good_ , and finally with barely a whimper of warning he comes in Richie Tozier’s mouth.

Richie swallows, sucking him clean. Freddy has to slap the guy’s head a few times just to get him off, giggly and overstimulated, his whole body more or less vibrating on the bed. He’s got pins and needles in his actual _face,_ and other extremities, and can barely steal a glance downwards as Richie wipes his hand across his mouth and shimmies up beside him. Their eyes meet for a moment, and Freddy laughs and blows his lips out. Richie looks at him, eyelids low, and leans in a little before stopping himself.

“Oh, shit, I should brush my teeth—”

Freddy grabs the back of his neck and lurches up, kissing him — Freddy doesn’t want to say _gratefully_ (because, fuck, he deserves a little blowjob every once in awhile, right? Every once in a ONCE?) But, yeah, OK, he’s pretty fucking grateful about it.

Richie pulls back quickly, choking a little.

“Sorry — um, was that not OK?” asks Freddy, still not totally unable to wipe the grin off.

“No, it’s…” Richie stares at him, pupils blown wide, and shakes his head slightly. “ _You’re_ OK with that?”

Freddy bites his bottom lip, nodding. Richie smiles a little, brow wrinkling, and Freddy pauses before leaning in to kiss him again. Relishing the taste of his cum on the other man’s mouth, Freddy gathers whatever strength he has left to push Richie down onto his back, rolling over sort of halfway on top. Wow — he’s pretty fucked out already. But Richie’s kissing him so gently and touching his hair so he’s kind of happy about it too. And anyway — isn’t it about time he did some of the work around here?

First, he drops his head to Richie’s chest and just smushes his face into the man’s chest hair, humming happily. (OK, OK, who said this was work?) He glances down and bites his lip at the sight of the sizeable tent in Richie’s boxers, leaking a little wet patch against the blue plaid. He dances his fingers down, playing with the hair as he goes. Richie nuzzles the side of his face and Freddy turns to meet his lips again, kissing him almost obscenely as he flattens his palm over the strong shape inside the man’s boxers. They both gasp, mouths falling open against each other’s, and Richie reaches up to tangle his fingers in Freddy’s hair.

Freddy knows what that means. He grins and tugs Richie’s bottom lip in between his teeth. As Richie chases his mouth, Freddy looks down again, staring at the cock, hot and weighty in his hand. Dick twitching, he bum-shuffles down the bed and leans over, pulling it out of the boxer’s fly and gazing at it, how it seems to defy gravity with its hardness, its heaviness, before wetting his lips and rubbing them all over the tip.

Richie holds his hands over his face as Freddy blows him. Sometimes he reaches down and brushes his fingers over Freddy’s bare arm or his back, or gives his hair the briefest tousle. Most of the time he just grinds his teeth and pants and holds his arms up out of reach. Freddy’s eyes water as he takes it, deepthroating skills that he’s only really practiced on dildos, but it gets him hard again anyway, the heft of it in his mouth, the smell of it, everything. God, he wants to be fucked. He aches inside for it, deep where he fingered himself earlier, just to be prepared. He knows Richie will make it clear when it’s time. He thinks he will, anyway.

Ten minutes — twenty minutes must go by — and Freddy changes it up, using his hands and sucking on the head, attempting tongue manoeuvres he’s just invented, putting to practice every tip r/porn ever taught him. A full half hour passes and Freddy’s jaw is aching but they’re still… you know. 

They’re not really getting anywhere. 

Jesus Christ, is this what it means to be old?

“Hey, c’mere,” pants Richie eventually, tapping at Freddy’s elbow, and Freddy scooches up beside him again, trying to look innocent and sexy and not, you know, like a total fucking failure. Eyes half-closed, Richie rolls over so they’re both lying on their sides, gently touching Freddy’s face and kissing him again. Freddy kisses back with a vengeance, rubbing his hands over every erogenous zone he can think of, then takes Richie’s cock in his hand again and works on it, feeling the larger man groan and shiver against him and bury his face into Freddy’s shoulder. Freddy holds him and sucks on his neck and jerks him off furiously until his wrist is aching and finally — fucking _finally_ Richie goes all quiet and breathy, and eventually squeezes him even tighter.

“Eddie,” he whispers, and shudders as he comes. Freddy’s brow twitches and his hand stills for a moment, but then he works Richie through the end of it, the warm fluid painting his hand. Richie releases his vice-like embrace and falls back onto the bed, sighing and throwing his arms over his face once more. 

Freddy sits there a moment, hand aloft and dripping, then turns over onto his back as well. He’s vaguely aware as Richie reaches for tissues on the bedside table to mop up his belly, and tosses one to Freddy. Freddy looks at the cum on his hand and thinks he should have done something sexy like lick it off. But he just… picks the tissue up instead and wipes it.

There’s silence for a long time. For awhile, anyway. Freddy’s body is so exhausted he can’t even move. Or think. He feels wide awake though, staring at the ceiling.

“My name’s Freddy,” he says suddenly. “Not Eddie.”

Richie wets his lips, blinking his eyes slowly. “… What’d you say?”

“Yeah, it’s Freddy. Don’t worry about it though.”

Richie’s heads whips towards him, staring at him in horror.

“Wait.” Freddy wrinkles his brow. “I never told you that, did I?” He shoots up to sitting, casting a suspicious look at Richie. Then it clicks. “Oh, shit — that’s _his_ name, isn’t it? Your little high school crush?”

Richie’s eyes are like golf balls. He convulses, and slaps a hand to his mouth. Then he’s staggering up and rushing to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. 

Freddy sits up, his brow high on his forehead. There’s a loud retching sound, and a groan.

“Hey, y-you OK?” shouts Freddy. He kind of wants to go check, but also. His leg is literal jello right now and he left his crutch in the other room.

There’s no answer but the flush of the toilet. Freddy hears the faucet run and some gargling sounds. After a minute, the door opens again. Richie walks up to the bed, collapsing beside him, and scrunches his eyes shut.

“You OK?” repeats Freddy, his voice high.

Richie blinks, turning to him. “Oh, _hah_ there,” he says in a softly accented voice, reaching his hand out to shake. “Don’t think we, ah, propahly intra- _duced_ ahselves. Ah’m Richie Tozier, sah, at yah service.”

Laughing, Freddy shakes Richie’s hand. “Freddy.”

“Wonderful tah meetcha, Freddy.” Richie shakes his head and lies back down, staring at the ceiling. Freddy lies back down as well. There’s silence a moment. And then there’s silence for, like, a very long time.

Smacking his lips, Freddy says, “You… wanna talk about it?”

“ _Nope_.”

Freddy smiles at the ceiling. There’s like a chandelier type thing scattering light patterns up there. It’s not even a big deal. Like, it’s SO not a big deal. Honestly, with this kind of shit it’s even to be _expected_. Freddy even suggested some sort of role-play around this shit, like, barely a fucking hour ago! But — you know what? Now that he’s here… No. He’s just not into it. It’s just not OK.

Guess there was a reason Richie was so eager to blow him after all.

 _Thanks a lot, brain_ , Freddy thinks, refraining from smacking himself in the forehead. He turns to Richie instead, slapping on a grin. “Want me to talk about _my_ high school crush then? Take your mind off it?”

Richie’s head turns, narrowing his eyes. “Hmm… alright, hit me with your best yearning.”

“Well, let’s see. His name’s Billy.”

“Oooh, I know a Billy,” says Richie, immediately invested, turning on his side and hugging his pillow like they’re kids at fricking slumber party.

“Don’t we all,” sighs Freddy. He laughs, turning to look at the lights again. “So — technically he’s my foster brother.”

“Whoa — what? Kinky!”

“Eh, _no_ , not really. I mean, he moved into my group home when we were like fourteen. My foster parents were actually raised in the same group home — it’s not a big deal or anything.”

“Does he know about you?”

Freddy laughs. “What — the sugar baby thing? Are you kidding me?”

“No, I meant—” Richie shrugs, scratching his head. “He knows you’re gay?”

Freddy bites his lip, and nods. Just how closeted is Comedian Richie Tozier? Freddy thought at least his friends and family might know. But now that he’s getting all shy about, Freddy’s not so sure.

“Man, I bet you’ve been out since you were, like, _six_ ,” continues Richie, not without a twinge of jealousy.

“No, not at all, I didn’t come out ’til after high school. Actually I’m still not out to a lot of people. I mean, most people take one look at me and they see disability, and everyone at school knew I was a foster kid, and I just… I didn’t need another fucking signpost, know what I mean? Actually it took me awhile to figure it out, too.”

“Bet Billy helped.”

“Oh, Billy helped. Jesus Christ. He threw me a new one. I was fourteen when Billy showed up, all quiet and broody and emotionally unavailable, and so naturally I was like, hey! You’re my best friend now! I wanna be around you every minute of every day! What d’you mean, _clingy?_ ”

Richie snorts. “Sorry, can’t relate..”

“Yeah.” Freddy’s stomach twists a bit, and his voice gets a little louder. “I dunno, I just thought he was pretty cool. And I was also, like, kind of jealous ’cause he was pretty good-looking, and we were the same age so I thought, well, why shouldn’t we be best friends? Anyway, I think he thought I was pretty annoying at first, but we ended up becoming super close.”

“What happened to him?”

“Oh, we’re still best friends. Still fucking live together. It’s _torture_.”

Richie shakes his head, eyes downcast. “You’re lucky, dude.”

“Am not. I’m, like, eighty-seven percent sure he’s straight.”

“Oooh, that thirteen percent though.”

“Fuck me, I know.”

Richie watches him thoughtfully, his glasses smushed up against his face by the pillow. He rubs his eyes. “How’d you figure it out then?”

Frowning, Freddy thinks for a moment. “Well, see, sometimes he, uh… he doesn’t look like himself?” He makes a face at the ceiling. “He does, uh — cosplay.”

Richie wrinkles his brow at him. “Like, in a hot way?”

“Umm… kinda? I mean, this is how we started bonding and stuff, though. And, actually, I started noticing that when he was… in his _cosplay_ , you know, I’d be like… I’d just be looking at him and wishing I could look at his — his normal b— face, uh, you know. Without the wigs and makeup and shit.”

“Right…”

“And I just thought, well, yeah, that’s OK. ’Cause Billy’s pretty cute, right? I just like looking at him, that’s all! And, also, why do I keep trying to touch his arm? Guess I’m just an affectionate guy, haha, that’s nothing new! But — oh shit — I made him laugh and got butterflies. I threw a hissy fit at his first girlfriend because she didn’t _know_ the _real_ him. He came into our room in only a towel and I got a boner. Oh, shit, I’m gay as fuck, aren’t I?”

“As the kids say, it be like that sometimes.”

“Fuck. It really do.”

Freddy grins, and looks at Richie. The older man reaches one arm over and musses Freddy’s hair. Freddy smiles back and waits for Richie to tell him about his own high school crush. Because, you know, that’s how conversation works. But he doesn’t. They just lie there in silence instead.

“Not to drastically change the subject,” starts Richie eventually. “But you, uh… you haven’t done this before, have you?”

Freddy’s eyes widen. “Whuh— I — I told you, you’re the first guy I met up with.”

“No, I mean, you haven’t done…” Richie waves vaguely at their lower halves. _“This_.”

“I’ve done things,” says Freddy quickly. 

“Are you a virgin?”

Freddy scoffs nervously. “I mean, virgnity as a concept is—”

“OK, so you’re a virgin.” 

“I—” Freddy throws his hands up over his face. “Shit! God, was it that obvious?”

“No?” replies Richie, turning to look at the drapes because he’s definitely lying. “You were just very sweet and enthusiastic and overwhelmed looking, and it was just… cute, that’s all.”

“Fuck, I am _so_ sorry,” pleads Freddy, sitting up on one elbow. “Shit, I know it’s, like, lying by omission or whatever and it’s the second fucking time already but—”

“Hey,” says Richie, meeting his eyes. “We both got our shit, OK?”

Freddy swallows and nods.

Richie wets his lips. “I just have to rethink this a bit. Reassess.”

Heart hammering, Freddy watches as Richie blows his cheeks out, looking like he’s trying to read Mandarin off the chandelier or something. He cringes, wrinkling his nose.

“Like, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can fuck you.”

Freddy groans, smashing his fists into his face. 

“I mean, first off — shouldn’t I pay extra for that?”

“ _What?_ No, no, no, look — I don’t want to _sell_ my fucking virginity, I just want to get rid of it! It’s not a big deal! So that’s, like, totally unnecessary and just making it a bigger deal than it needs to be!”

“It kind of _is_ a big deal, though.”

“Oh, because your first time was fucking magical, I bet.”

“No, it was fucking awful, hence why I don’t wanna be the guy who subjects you to that shit.”

“Oh, aren’t you _sweet_.”

“Its not sweet!” yells Richie, throwing his hands up. “It’s one hundred percent in my self-interest! It’s way too fucking complicated! Physically and emotionally!”

“Dude!” shouts Freddy, feeling red in the face. “I’ve taken dildos bigger than you! Hundreds of them! And that’s fucking _saying_ something,” he adds, jerking his head towards Richie’s crotch with a wide-eyed grin.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, young man!” Richie shouts, but there’s a little glint in his eye as he grins back at Freddy.

“Come _on_ , how different can it be, though?” says Freddy, laughing and scooting closer. “It’s just a fucking dick!”

“Different, OK? It’s very fucking different.” 

Freddy lets his head drop to one shoulder, lets his eyes widen and do the work. Maybe he throws in a little pout for good measure. You know how it is.

Meeting his gaze briefly, Richie sighs and looks over him. Freddy’s still buck naked, by the way, and hey — he knows his best angles. Richie tongues the inside of his cheek, looking like he’s struggling, then wrenches his eyes away, cursing under his breath. “No, fuck you! Look, I already called you by the wrong fucking name, I don’t wanna fuck you up any further, give you some sort of complex.”

“I’m not gonna get a _complex_.”

“Trust me, kid, every person you fuck gives you a complex. Hell, half the people you _don’t_ fuck give you a complex too.”

Richie drums his fingers on his chest for a moment, frowning slightly. Freddy watches him, still very aware of their nakedness and the casual intimacy of it. He likes Richie’s chest, likes his hair and the thickness of him, the broadness of the shoulders. There’s a soft little tummy too. Freddy likes it a lot. He wants to cuddle up and put his head on that chest and his hand on the belly and for Richie to put his nice big arm around him. Then they’d just, like, lie there like that for awhile. But he doesn’t know if they’re there yet. He doesn’t even know if that’s where they’re going. Like, what, just because they can make each other laugh and give each other orgasms and communicate kind of alright, suddenly that means they’re gonna _cuddle?_ This is about sex, not intimacy. Not that they’ve, you know, actually talked about what this is.

Instead he shifts up beside Richie, just about resting his head on his shoulder. He chews his lip, lifting one finger to rub back and forth over the thick hair on Richie’s forearm. “So — what you’re saying is, there’s like a fifty percent chance I’m gonna get a complex either way? I dunno, sounds like it’s worth the risk to me.”

Richie drops his hand onto his face, laughing and rubbing the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. “We can still do… like, literally everything else.”

“What — everything?”

“Yeah. Everything.”

Freddy thinks hard for a minute. “Fisting?”

Richie splutters. “No, no fisting.”

“Fingering?”

“Hmm… if the mood strikes.”

“You gonna eat my ass?” 

No response, so Freddy lifts his head to see Richie’s expression. The older man’s tongue spills out over his bottom lip as he looks over Freddy, eyes blinking erratically. “Ye— _yes_ , fuck, let’s do that.”

Freddy giggles a bit, and their eyes travel over each other’s faces, until Freddy closes the distance, because — you know — he can. Kissing him back, Richie gives an appreciative groan, lifting his hand to grasp the back of Freddy’s neck. Just as Freddy’s raising himself up to climb on top — and Jesus, _wow_ , his body is fucking _sore_ — Richie turns his face and laughs a little, shaking his head. “Yeah, maybe tomorrow though? I’m old and tired and I already came once so…”

“Oh thank God,” says Freddy, falling onto his back. He stretches his toes, wincing slightly. “I can’t feel my leg.”

Richie laughs, glancing sideways at him. “You’re, uh… staying the night though, right?”

“Well, yeah, if that’s OK?”

“That’s OK,” says Richie, smiling a little as his eyes wander over him. 

“OK,” says Freddy, smiling back. “Good.”

Fumbling with his glasses, Richie rolls over and tosses them on the bedside table. He smashes at the various light switches within reach until finally the room goes dark. 

It’s a big fucking bed. Richie stays on his side, and Freddy turns to look at him in the dark. He could stretch his arms out and still not touch him, probably. He stretches them halfway, sweeping fingers over the soft sheets, still warm. Is this a King size or what? Freddy has no idea. It feels almost too big though.

Richie groans suddenly. “Fuck. My toothbrush is in my bag, so I’m just gonna be gross for tonight.”

“Fuck, me too, I’m so tired,” says Freddy, laughing. For a moment, they say nothing. Then Freddy blathers on. “You’d have to do it for me. Oh — shit, you know that anime girl thing with her brother brushing her teeth?”

“No memes,” sighs Richie. “Only sleep.”

“That’s a — that’s a fucking meme, asshole!”

“Shush, shaddap,” says Richie, throwing a hand out and gently swatting Freddy’s face. Freddy laughs, but the little bit of touch drives him crazy in the dark and he wants to follow it, follow the arm and cling to it, curl up against the body it’s attached to, but… no. Realising that Richie’s serious now, he tries to keep his mouth shut long enough to get into a decent position for sleeping. It’s fucking hard — and not just because he’s still got a bit of a semi from earlier. He has to sit up and untuck the comforter because it’s super heavy and he hates how it falls on his foot when it’s feeling all numb like this. He thinks about putting a pillow under his knees — but it’s probably overkill. This bed and pillow are probably a thousand times better than the ones in his dorm but… it’s always hard getting used to somewhere new.

“Hey,” he says, when he’s run out of ways to move around and can’t distract his tongue any longer. “You know, I think you’re gonna change your mind.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

Freddy chuckles and smiles at the ceiling. See, he even knew what Freddy was talking about. He must be thinking about it too. They are so, one hundred percent, going to fuck. 

They didn’t close the curtains so the room has a bluish tint, clear as day in the city night. It’s clean, and big, and cold.

“Well, goodnight,” says Freddy, a little too loud.

“Night, kid.”

Freddy swallows, and it sounds really fucking loud in the dark. _It’s Freddy_ , he thinks, closing his eyes tight. _My name is Freddy._


	3. Second Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeyyy so I apologise for the delay. No excuse, really, I just wanted to write my original stuff instead. But now I'm back to avoiding that! Yay!
> 
> I can't make any promises for future updates, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> This one gets kind of dark, so please check the updates tags for triggers and let me know if I should add any.

Richie wakes up alone, and it’s a while before he realises there’s anything unusual about that. He’s dosing for close to a half hour before he remembers — oh, there was kid a here. 

_Was_ a kid here?

He holds his breath and cracks his eyes open, but he’s facing the wrong way. He’s never been very good at sleeping in beds with people. Lucky he was jet-lagged, really, or he might not have slept at all. He lies stiffly and quietly, too aware of the space he takes up. He listens for a moment, working up the courage to turn over.

 _Please be gone, please be gone, please be gone,_ he thinks _._

Nah, he doesn’t mean that.

_You should kill yourself if he’s gone._

Richie snaps his eyes shut and shakes his head, which is the lazyman’s alternative to giving himself a good old Pavlovian smack in the face, which is the depressed man’s alternative to learning actual CBT or something. Surprise, surprise — being depressed doesn’t make you all that motivated to teach yourself how to stop being depressed. Richie has never been one for CBT. Doesn’t have the attention span, the _commitment_. He can do the first step alright, which is recognising the thoughts, but that’s not so fucking helpful if you don’t learn what to do with them. Then you just have all these _thoughts_ to think about. Which is why you’re fucking depressed in the first place.

He lifts his head finally, glances over at the other pillow. It’s vacant, the sheets strewn haphazardly. The kid bailed. No wonder. There’s a sick, sinking feeling in Richie’s stomach, tinged with a bit of relief. The relief vacates pretty quickly though. And then he’s just _sad_.

He imagines the headlines — _Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier dead by suicide in Philadelphia hotel._ He wonders how the kid would feel after he saw it — but swats the thought away, despising himself. He diverts his mind to the minibar and how he’ll drown himself in it once he has the energy to get up. 

_If_ he has the energy to get up. 

His whole body jolts as a laugh reaches him from the next room. Noisy neighbours? No, wait — didn’t he go for the soundproof option? He looks around, eyes squinting, finding the window and noticing for the first time the sharp winter sunlight streaming in. It must be afternoon already. 

There’s another cackle, and a snort, followed by a happy little sigh. Gosh darn, it’s a cute laugh. Richie listens and realises he can hear the TV coming in through the sitting room wall. The twirly, campy music of Adam West era Batman is obnoxiously apparent.

Holy ravioli, Batman! The kid stayed! 

Now there’s a flood of relief, accompanied by the vague ominous anxiety of keeping this gig up — which quickly solidifies into pure dread. But, nah, there’s still the relief. He doesn’t know what he’d do, left to his own devices, in a place where nobody knows his location and there’s no calls to take, no meetings to get to. No reason to go outside. 

Yeah, yeah. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be alone.

There’s a swanky ass bathtub in the en suite, the copper kind with clawed feet. Richie hides his face in his hands, trying not to look at it as he takes his morning dump. He dresses in yesterday’s dirty t-shirt and boxers before braving the sitting room.

“Oh, hey, you’re up,” says Freddy, smiling brightly up at him when he enters. He’s changed into fresh underwear and nothing else and Richie’s — half hard, already, Jesus Christ. “Thought you might’ve passed on in your sleep, old man.”

Richie gives a hollow laugh and gestures at the TV. “And what’s this, Saturday morning cartoons?” 

“Uh, it’s two in the afternoon. And this is Netflix.”

Richie fumbles with his bag, searching for a toothbrush. He always feels guilty using the fancy, one-use hotel ones. “I didn’t peg you for an early riser.”

“You didn’t peg me at all.”

Richie almost chokes. 

“I’m not, anyway — it’s just I had school yesterday and it takes a day or two to beat the circadian rhythm, know what I mean? I’d probably be nocturnal if left to my own devices.”

“College?” asks Richie, trying not to sound too suspect.

“Community, yeah.”

Richie nods, clutching his bag. He grew up heinously middle-class — has no clue what being a foster kid in community college doing sex work on the side’s gotta be like. He feels the urge to ask more questions but knows it’s got to be a mistake to learn too much about the kid. Because that’s all it is, right? Sex work. 

And here’s the guilt, the shame, the self-loathing. Right on cue.

“What are your plans for today?” says Freddy, sitting up and leaning over the arm rest with a wide grin. Jesus, it’s like he’s determined to be the hottest piece of ass Richie’s ever seen in his life. Looking at him, careening more or less naked on the couch — _Richie’s_ couch, or the one he’s paying for anyways — sensations from last night come back to him, boiling his blood. The touch of skin. The hot flush rising just below the surface of his chest and cheeks. His happy, unhindered sounds. Fuck, it’s been a hell of a long time since Richie’s been so hot for someone. Or touched anyone or… or even been _close_ to anyone. And that someone sticking around in the morning. 

The sex was _fun_ , don’t get him wrong. Awkward as hell and agonisingly clumsy, but there was something in it that was different. An itch, a need, a desperation. It didn’t quite hit the spot. There’s something else he wants from it, something he never thought he wanted, even before his reunion with Eddie fucked up his definition of desire.

It’s fucking gross, man. Either he’s gone sentimental in his old age, or he’s regressing to a time where he thought he had any right to affection.

The kid’s still talking. “Wanna see some of the city? I know some great spots — could show you around.”

“Oh no,” says Richie, snapping back to reality. “No, no, no. No fucking way. I fucking hate the east coast.”

Freddy blinks. “Oh — do you have a show this weekend or something?”

“Nope.”

“What, so you’re just…”

“Here for you.”

“Oh.”

“ _Yeah_.”

“I didn’t realise.”

Richie searches around for his phone, not speaking another word until it’s safe in his clammy hand. “Look,” he says, “I’m gonna send you half the money right now so, uh, don’t feel obligated to stay or anything. But I’m not leaving ’til Monday so… if you wanna stay another night you, uh… can.”

Freddy wets his lips, scanning Richie’s face. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I mean, whatever, I’m easy.”

Freddy wrinkles his brow and laughs. “You know… this would be a lot easier if you actually, like, _told me_ what you’d like. Like, I dunno, just tell me honestly. You’re paying for—” He waves his hands around. “—All of this. Might as well get what you want out of it.”

What he _wants?_ Jesus, what kind of sex positive, Gen Z bullshit notion is that? OK, OK, so he’s heard that shit before, but he prefers guys who don’t ask questions like that, or don’t ask questions at all, preferably. He prefers it dirty and fast and with the lights off — which he realises is the exact opposite of what happened last night. Is that what he wants then? Or was it just the kid’s excitement rubbing off on him?

Richie used to see guys on Freddy’s stream making asks and demands of him, acting like they owned the place. He could never do that shit. Not because he’s any better than they are — he’s no hashtag fucking nice guy. He just doesn’t know what the fuck he’d ask for. And the idea of someone having knowledge of his self, carnal or otherwise, is his Lynchian nightmare. 

But Freddy’s right, too. If he can’t tell the guy he’s paying for it what he likes, then where the fuck does that leave them?

“Whatever,” repeats Richie, and heads into the bedroom with his bag. Does this room have a balcony? He can’t remember. 

_Trashmouth dead after fall from sixth floor Philly hotel room._

_Phoo-wee, what a view._

He brushes his teeth and showers and when he returns Freddy is still there. On his phone.

“What you got there?” asks Richie, his neck flashing hot.

“Tik-Tok,” replies Freddy, grinning and angling the phone to Richie. “Say hi—!”

Richie bolts over and slaps the phone out of the kid’s hand. Freddy blinks and ogles him, mouth falling open. 

“Don’t at me!” shouts Richie. “I mean, don’t out me! I mean, don’t do either of those things!”

“Jesus Christ, I was kidding!” Freddy laughs, throwing his hands up in surrender. He glances nervously at Richie, then at his phone across the floor. He reaches for his crutch. Richie wants to fucking puke.

“Sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry.” Richie rushes over and scrabbles for the phone. He checks the screen for cracks, sighs in relief, and carefully hands it over. 

Freddy takes it, but throws him a worried look. 

“I’m so sorry,” Richie repeats.

“No, it’s — _I’m_ sorry, it wasn’t funny.”

Richie grits his teeth, shaking his head back and forth.

“I mean — it must be hard, like. Being famous and all.”

Richie swipes up the menu on the coffee table, having noticed a couple plates licked clean. “You order breakfast already?”

Freddy swerves into his conversational u-turn like a pro. “More like brunch but — I hope that’s OK?”

“Oh, yeah, fine. Did, uh… did someone bring it in?”

He watches Freddy in his peripherals as the boy answers. “Oh? Nah — they sent it up in that thing.”

Freddy points to a part of the wall with a little indented metal cabinet. 

“It’s pretty cool. Look — you just order off the app and they just send it on up.”

Richie stares at the thing, then at the menu. “That _is_ cool.” 

What’s cooler is no bellboy motherfucker tipping off the paps that there’s a twenty year old boy chilling in Richie Tozier’s hotel room in his underwear. 

He sighs, another portion of stress falling from his shoulders. His heart’s been a bit fast, blood a bit hot in carotid artery. But it’s relaxing a little. He looks around, looks out the window, down at a city of ant people and matchbox cars. Nobody’s watching. Nobody’s peeping. The walls are soundproof, man. It’s all taken care of. 

Stalling, he examines the dumbwaiter a bit, chewing his lip, then moves to sit next to Freddy on the sofa as the boy passes him his phone. He scrolls the menu, mouth watering, which is enough of a distraction from the half naked body next to him.

Still, he glances at Freddy, flaked out with one foot tucked underneath him and one leg out straight. He’s slouching — don’t care ’bout no ergonomics, man. He belly laughs at the TV, and absently tucks a hand into his armpit with an airy smile. The semi Richie’s been nursing since walking in pulses a little at the memory of last night — mortifying, _fuck_ — why the fuck did he call him— 

Richie shudders, and Freddy looks at him.

“Uh, you want anything?” Richie asks, after ordering himself a full Irish, OJ, and coffee (to be made Irish). He adds pancakes on top, just as a treat. 

Freddy mumbles sheepishly for a moment, before throwing him the bambi eyes. “Wouldn’t say no to some waffles…”

“You sure?” says Richie, feigning concern as he stands up. “You’re not gonna be a twink forever, you know.”

Freddy kicks him in the ass, laughing. Richie’s too exhausted to lean into it, to keep the bit going, to even smile much, really. He staggers instead to the minibar, searching around for the best whiskey for the job. He takes a couple swigs as a little appetiser. A little _apéritif_.

“You know Burt Ward had to take shrinking pills ’cause his dong was too big for his leotard?” asks Richie, watching Batman and his pal running at the camera while a crap explosion goes off in the background. “He was only five foot eight,” he adds, because he doesn’t know why. 

_You know, ’cause he’s little. He fits on a barbecue._

Freddy tilts his head to the side, squinting. He gasps. “Little Robin wasn’t so little?”

Richie snorts. He watches Robin on screen, narrow face and neatly combed brown hair. He swishes another mouthful of whiskey and stares out the window instead.

Richie actually geeks out a bit about the dumbwaiter when the food comes, and sends Freddy’s empty plates down with a giggle. When he turns, Freddy is cracking open the metal plate cover and groaning loudly at the smell. 

“You know what we should do?” he asks Richie, eyes glinting with a mischievous grin.

“Uhh, what should we do?”

Freddy wags his eyebrows. “We should take this to the bedroom.”

Richie does a double take. _Eddie would never_. Freddy notices.

“That a no?” he asks.

“No, that’s — _yes_. Yeah, let’s do it.”

Freddy grabs his crutch and the nearest plate and lugs himself excitedly through the door. Richie’s eyes drop from angular shoulders to smooth back, right down to his ass that curves real nice which each step on his good foot. 

Talk about a cutie patootie.

Richie grabs the rest of the plates and follows. 

They argue for about a half hour over what to watch while stuffing their faces, before eventually deciding — Freddy deciding, really — that they should take it in turns choosing. Since Freddy spent all morning watching ye olde Batman (is it something about the suits? Just crotches — crotches everywhere) he figures it’s Richie’s turn to decide. Only Richie’s suddenly all out of ideas.

“Just _think_ ,” moans Freddy. “Something you’re into. Like, what’re you totally obsessed with right now?”

“I’m a grown up, I don’t get obsessed with things.”

“Well what’s your favourite, go-to comfort movie?”

“I don’t know — maybe _Godfather?_ ”

“Never seen it.”

Richie snatches the remote, and starts searching. “Shit — it’s not on here.”

“I got it.”

Freddy gets up, leaves the room, and comes back with his laptop and cables. Richie brushes toast crumbs off his t-shirt and scrolls through the Al Pacino movies on Netflix anyway, letting the short clips run. He’s hottest in godfather, right? Big ol’ droopy brown eyes. Maybe _Scarface,_ though — more screentime. _I bury those cockaroaches!_ He tries out loud a couple of time, testing the cadence of the Cuban accent. He sees _Psycho_ I and II on the list and hovers over those too. 

Anthony Perkins… Jesus Christ, does he have a type?

“It’s downloading,” says Freddy, resting his butt on the TV stand and stretching to plug his HDMI into the back of the TV. “Let’s do me in the meantime.”

“Gee, I thought you’d never ask.”

Freddy rolls his eyes. “ _Joker_.”

“Uh, y’think?”

“No, I mean I pick _Joker_.”

“Nope. Vetoed.”

Freddy huffs. “ _Dark Knight?_ ”

“Vetoed.” Richie pauses. “No clowns.”

Freddy thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s _Batman V Superman_ , then.”

Richie cries out loudly.

“Oh, come on! You vetoed twice already!”

Richie scrolls quickly, chooses _Seven Psychopaths_ , and hits play. He slumps down and crosses his ankles as the opening credits run. Freddy looks at the TV, and back to meet Richie’s eyes. A little petulant. Not a bad look. Really, with his curly hair Freddy is actually going off the blueprint. The eyes are still uncanny, though. 

Richie pats the bed with one hand, pulls his plate of pancakes onto his stomach and starts feeding himself with the other.

“Sexy,” says Freddy, climbing onto the bed and collapsing beside him.

“I told you, man.”

It’s a great way to waste a day. Richie doesn’t have many movies he feels really passionate about, and these days he’s more likely to just put something on as background noise or to pass the time without having to commit. But he enjoys watching good actors do their thing. It’s something he forgot he enjoyed, now that he’s here, with an audience to bounce his impressions off of. Richie doesn’t love the fact that he’s picking up on the kinds of jokes that make Freddy laugh the hardest, the dialogue that hooks him, doesn’t like that suddenly they’re having deep and meaningful debates on what makes a good coming of age story.

(Homoeroticism, is what is is.)

He doesn’t hate it either.

When they start into _Godfather_ , he has to Google pictures from _Streetcare Named Desire_ to prove to Freddy that Brando was actually a looker in his day. 

“You can act like a man!” he shouts, slurring and grabbing Freddy and shaking him. “Whatsa matta with you? Is this how you turned out, a Hollywood finocchio that cries like a woman?”

Freddy laughs, long eyelashes blinking at him in awe. “Shit, you’re good at that.”

“You know I wanted to be a ventriloquist back when I was a kid?”

“Whoa, what? That’s kinda cool, actually.”

Richie grimaces. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing: rehashing the old script, hoping it’ll turn out different. That’s psych 101, baby. He remembers Eddie’s mom’s garage, vividly, the way those eyes would light up when they talked grown-up talk. Let’s get out of this town, you and me. Let’s leave it all fucking behind. He’ll make a killing in Las Vegas, and they’ll travel the country. Richie had visions of them cramped in single beds in motel rooms — made his heart pound and his palms sweat just thinking about it. Knowing and not knowing what it meant.

“Eh,” he says, a verbal shrug. “Turns out shitty comedian pays better.”

“Can you do the thing?” asks Freddy, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. Richie’s so enticed by his lips he almost forgets what’s so wrong about what he’s doing. 

He sits up, leans closer. “I’n gonna nake him an other he can’t refuse,” he says through his teeth.

“Nn uhna nake hhn uhn ohher—”

They start giggling. Richie reaches out to Freddy, slipping an arm around his shoulder and holding onto his chin with his other hand. “OK, no, that’s terrible. I’m demoting you to dummy.”

Freddy shouts in defiance but then obediently goes limp, head lolling. Richie gets a better grip, hands on skin, and straightens him up. Freddy can’t help but crack a smile, eyes bright as they meet Richie’s.

“OK, ready? Three, two, one—”

Freddy mimes the line as Richie throws his voice, and they both laugh hysterically. 

“OK, better,” he says, pulling Freddy closer and revving up for the punchline. “Now, you sit in my lap, and I’ll stick my hand up your—”

Freddy’s on top of him, kissing him desperately before he can finish. And he’s glad — relieved, actually — because breaking the ice the next day is never an easy feat. He _stayed_ , yeah, but who’s to say last night wasn’t a fuckup and a turn-off and the kid’s dreading the moment Richie tries to put his greasy paws on him again? But those thoughts shunt right out of his mind when Freddy shoves his eager tongue into his mouth. Richie grabs his hair with one hand, scrabbling the other around his waist and dragging him closer. And today it’s easier, they fit together easy, they grapple and roll over and pant into each other’s mouths like it’s second nature all of a sudden. 

Richie wants to cry from how good it feels, how horny he is, how insane the chemistry is, now that he has no way of plausibly denying that there’s some amount of mutual attraction going on here. And he’s so _guilty_ , overwhelmingly so — but what for? _Who_ for? The lines are blurring. Because this kid isn’t Eds. The more Richie looks at him, the longer he spends with him, the more he realises that Freddy couldn’t be _further_ from the Eddie Kaspbrak he knew. Richie doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He still had to go to some deep, dank corners of his brain last night just to force himself through his orgasm. It’s not fair to Freddy, who’s so here for this, so _into_ it. 

It’s not fair to Eddie either.

Freddy comes after a decent amount of frottage and Richie taking them both in hand to finish it off. He watches, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, as Freddy’s chin keens back and his eyes shut tight. And how the orgasm rolls through him. He breathes heavy, opening his eyes to search Richie’s out, brown curls stuck with sweat to his forehead. He laughs breathily, eyes shining. 

_Thanks folks, I’m here all weekend._

As Richie rolls off, Freddy sits up and reaches for his still hard cock.

“It’s fine,” says Richie, jumping to his feet and adjusting his boxers. “It’s just gonna take too long.”

Freddy makes an affronted face. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

He reaches for him again and Richie dodges, shaking his head. He snatches up a few tissues and hands them over. “It’s just… the mental gymnastics,” he says vaguely, and leaves to take a piss.

Freddy is either pissed off or concerned when he returns. He’s on his phone again, probably Googling erectile dysfunction or some shit. That’s not the issue. Richie hasn’t been so hard in years. Sure, he’d love to go senseless with it — just fucking brainless, drunk, animalistic fucking — but he’d rather keep his wits about him. If he loses his mind he’s gonna say something stupid again. He’ll go to that place he shouldn’t go, where he can’t help but go. So instead of explaining — instead of opening up about the dead love of his life — he pauses _The Godfather_ thirty minutes in and lets Freddy put on his next choice. 

It’s actually kind of creepy how they share a compulsion to talk ninety percent of the way through a film, laugh at the serious bits and fast-forward through the dull ones. But he starts to question how well their tastes really line up when Freddy puts on a documentary. Weird — comic book movies all around, and then a _documentary?_ Richie’s got an intellectual side, don’t get him wrong — but the choice starts making a little more sense when he realises it’s a documentary about a gay dude with a disability. And that’s just _uncomfy_. If he thought they were gonna go soul-searching with these movie choices, maybe he would’ve chosen _Joker_ after all. 

You know, if Joker had killed himself in the end.

Richie breathes through his nose, now convinced that this kid is passive-aggressively doing — _something_ — he doesn’t know what. He makes another unsubtle break for the john. 

The fancy-pants bathtub mocks him from the corner. 

_Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier slits his wrists in splendid clawfoot tub._

Oh, thanks for showing up, Stan.

After retching silently into the toilet bowl for a minute with no result, he heads back out, grabs another bottle of whiskey, and rejoins Freddy on the bed.

The dude in the documentary actually has a lot of charisma, and Richie hates it. He’s hosting a literal orgy for disabled folk in Toronto, for fuck’s sake.

“Why the fuck’s this dude got more confidence than I do?” asks Richie, throwing his hands up.

“Why shouldn’t he?” asks Freddy.

Richie squints. “Oh, come on.”

“Because he’s in a wheelchair?” Richie shakes his head but Freddy gets louder. “So, you’re saying people with disabilities can’t have confidence, huh? You — you’re saying they can’t feel sexy and — and confident, right, that’s what you’re saying?”

“I didn’t _say_ that.”

“That’s what you _thought_.”

Richie shrugs and tosses his head. “I just don’t know why you idolise this guy, that’s all. You’re not even that disabled.”

Freddy takes a deep breath. He sits up. He turns around. “OK — first — you have no fucking _idea_ how disabled I am.”

“It’s just a li’l leg thing,” says Richie, slurring slightly.

“It’s not a _leg_ thing, douchebag. In a _spine_ thing.” Richie groans, and Freddy throws his hands up. “But, _no_ — you know what, you’re actually right. My leg’s only been numb all fucking day — it’s only driving me _crazy_. It only literally woke me up this morning. Some days I’m just walking around and everything below the waist fucking seizes, I mean — there is no fucking way to sit that’s comfortable for my back and you — you think that just because I still look _fuckable_ to you that I’m not fucking disabled enough? Fucking— _oh my God_ , just fuck you.” 

He fumbles for his crutch, drops it, and recovers to storm gracelessly into the bathroom. It’s almost slapstick — and Richie feels awful for thinking that. Then he feels awful for feeling awful. He knows the kid doesn’t want his pity. Yet he still imagines Freddy gritting his teeth in pain while Richie slobbers over him like an animal. Like the clown, stalking closer — hair and tooth and claw.

At the reunion Eddie mentioned his arm still twinged sometimes. Richie stared at him, thinking, _I did that to you._

From the depths of his core, a sob escapes him. It’s stupid. It doesn’t make any sense. He clamps a hand to his brow and wills back the tears. 

He lies back, balancing the whiskey bottle on his belly, and sighs. For awhile he listens to the TV, before sitting up, waddling over to the laptop and pausing it. When Freddy emerges, he heads straight into the sitting room.

“You leaving?” calls Richie, loud so his voice doesn’t waver.

Freddy reenters a moment later, tossing him a water bottle. He wrinkles his brow in genuine confusion. “Why? You trying to get me to leave?”

Richie belches. He covers his mouth retroactively. “Maybe subconsciously.”

“You’re a dickhead.”

“I know.” Richie stretches lethargically. “I’m an asshole and I don’t know shit and I should educate myself. You don’t have to put yourself through this.”

Freddy just stares at him, pauses, and takes a long drink. God, he sees right through his bullshit, doesn’t he?

Meekly, Richie ducks his head to the laptop again and skips back a few scenes.

“What are you doing?”

“Rewinding — I think we missed a good part.”

“We don’t have to watch it,” Freddy sighs, stepping closer.

“No, I — I want to. This guy’s really growing on me.” He turns his gaze up as Freddy comes up to him, raising a sceptical eyebrow. Richie does his best impression of bambi eyes, then sighs. “What I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry, OK?”

Freddy stops in front of him, looking down on him, so Richie is forced to either stare directly at his nipples or look up. He looks up. Their eyes meet for a long moment, and with each passing second Richie can literally feel himself trapped in his head, fight or flight, regressing. Being twelve is a nightmare. Being twenty is a nightmare. Being forty is a living hell.

“I get it,” he says, an almost conspiratorial whisper. “You want someone to understand you.”

“I want someone to understand me?” repeats Freddy, laughing suddenly. “Dude, I just want to watch one of my favourite movies.”

Richie squints at him, then looks at his hands. His neck is crazy hot. He’s trembling. He prays it doesn’t show. “Well. Maybe I’m projecting, then.”

Freddy stops. “What’s there to understand about you? Depressed comedian — why don’t you come up with something original, huh?”

Buckling slightly from that emotional blow, Richie exhales in a way that could arguably be a laugh. Then he grimaces, dropping his head. 

That wasn’t what he meant, anyway. It’s him who wants to do the understanding. Against all better judgement he finds himself wanting to know Freddy, to listen right and understand him, and nod supportively through his rants about ableism or whatever. Because he’s cool and hilarious and beautiful and interesting. And genuine as hell — God, it’s just terrifying. And passionate. Like, his comprehensive reasons for liking _Batman V Superman_ were actually super compelling. 

What a nightmare. It’s so fucking stupid. 

After a long pause, Freddy lets out a sigh. “You know that’s probably the most open you’ve been since we met?”

Richie rubs his eye, almost knocking his glasses off. Ironic, really. “I’m pretty drunk, to be honest.”

Freddy laughs out a little huff, then reaches down and runs his fingers through Richie’s hair. Richie suppresses a shiver, eyes falling shut. 

God… why’s he trying so fucking hard to fuck this up?

He sits there with his eyes screwed closed and his head tilted to the side, silently wishing to continue being caressed. And it works, somehow, like a miracle, like an answer to his every godamn prayer. Freddy sweeps his fingers from his temple to the base of his neck, thumb tracing a line behind his ear that leaves Richie dizzy, breathless, euphoric. He doesn’t deserve it. Freddy does it two or three times before Richie flutters his eyelids open and looks blearily up at him.

“How can I make you more comfortable?” he asks, reaching out to hold Freddy’s hips.

Freddy shrugs. “You can’t, really. Unless you got a cure for a codeine addiction.”

Richie pats his pockets down, then reaches for the whiskey with a wag of his eyebrows. Freddy shakes his head, but his lips betray a little smile.

Impulsively, Richie drags Freddy into his lap and kicks the crutch as it falls on his foot. “Honestly? I’m just a petty asshole who can’t stand watching out and proud gays living their best lives. I hate those _Queer Eye_ bitches, too.”

Freddy grins, tonguing the inside of his cheek.

“And I get that that’s my fucking privilege,” Richie adds quickly, rolling his eyes. “Since the whole _point_ is that he _has_ to be loud and proud because otherwise society’s just gonna, like, infantilise and desexualise and straight up ignore his whole existence on account of his disability.”

Freddy gives him a look of surprise. 

Richie looks around. “What? Can I collect my wokeness points now?

Laughing, Freddy leans away from him for a moment, before pulling back in and slipping an arm around his shoulder, sinking more comfortably into his lap. The weight on his knee and the arm around him — they’re domestic as hell, but Richie doesn’t seem to mind.

“So, who do I gotta blow to get an invite to this orgy anyhow?” he asks, grinning and nodding at the TV.

Freddy smirks, glancing down at his lips. “I think I might know a guy…”


End file.
